


Five Things That Never Happened to Stiles Stilinski

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Basically, But Themed, Dating, Drama, Ficlet Collection, Footsie, Get Together, How I Want Sterek to Become Canon, Humor, Lapdance, M/M, Not Interconnected, Romance, Sequence, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:25:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But one of them probably will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PART I: INVOLUNTARY LAPDANCES.  
>  PART II: INVOLUNTARY FOOTSIE.  
>  PART III: INVOLUNTARY HAND-HOLDING.  
>  PART IV: INVOLUNTARY KISSING.  
>  PART V: INVOLUNTARY CONFESSIONS.

* * *

 

He’s on Derek’s lap when he wakes up. And he has no idea whose twisted idea of a joke this is, but he’s  _stuck_  there, because his wrists are tied behind Derek’s head and his ankles are tied behind Derek’s waist. Basically, Derek’s tied to a chair and Stiles is tied to him.

Derek’s face is blanker than Stiles has ever seen it. And that’s saying something.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, and Derek’s brow twitches. There’s Mountain Ash in a neat little sigil around them, which explains why Derek hasn’t wolfed his way to freedom. The ash doesn’t just keep werecreatures in or out, but prevents them from using their powers. “I’ll get us outta this. I’ve been practicing getting out of tight spots with Scott, y’know, and I could already get out of handcuffs, since I grew up with ‘em.”

“You know how to get out of handcuffs,” Derek says, flatly.

“Um. Yeah?”

Derek’s expression goes even blanker. It’s like he’s having Botox injected into his facial muscles, or something. It’s creepy.

“Do it, then,” Derek snaps, and looks away, which - okay, it is kinda uncomfortable to just be breathing on each other, but Stiles is pretty sure he brushed this morning and didn’t feast on onion rings for breakfast, so it’s not like his breath reeks. Or like that line of tension in Derek’s jaw is justified. Bastard.

“Look, I know you don’t like this, but forced proximity to me is an unfortunate side-effect of being pursued by supervillains. Honestly, I don’t know why the supervillains of Beacon Hills seem fixated on tying us up together or throwing us into pools together or - ”

“It’s because they hate me,” Derek enunciates, slowly, and Stiles scowls.

“Yeah. Though not as much as you hate  _me_. Clearly.” And Stiles wriggles, feeling kind of ridiculous, like a kid on the world’s bounciest, most muscular air-castle, but he’s not gonna inflict his unwanted company on Derek I’m-So-Picky-Despite-Being-An-Ex-Con Hale any longer than he has to.

“Hurry up,” Derek grits, and his eyes redden, and -

“Hurrying!” Fuck, why aren’t Stiles’s thumbs bending the way he needs them to? He’s good at this - in fact, he’s so good that if he hadn’t been raised right, he could’ve totally had a career as a professional thief -

He bends backward even further -

Which ends up putting his crotch in rather close contact with Derek’s, but he’s going to ignore that, because he knows where he’s not wanted, thanks, eleventy-million years of pining after Lydia Martin taught him that, and -

He knows where he isn’t -

He -

Derek’s hard.

“Wha - ” And Stiles jerks upright, so shocked that his blood sort of freezes in him, for a second, caught between flushing his face and surging straight down to his dick. “You - ”

But Derek only glowers even  _more_ , at an area just beyond Stiles’s shoulder, and doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” rasps Stiles, weakly, barely hearing himself over his suddenly roaring pulse. “Great. That. I mean, it happens to everyone. When there’s, er. Tactile pressure. On the genital region. It’d happen to  _me_ , even if I had, like, Mitt Romney lapdancing on me. Okay, maybe not Mitt Romney. Ugh. But it’s, um, all right? It’s a perfectly normal reaction, it’s - ”

“I. Do not. Need. The sex talk,” Derek grinds out, still speaking to the space-around-Stiles’s-shoulder.

“Sure! Of course you don’t. Why would you? You’re not the virgin, here.”

Derek’s cock grows harder. Tangibly harder.

“Oh, god. Did I - did the thing about virgins just get you - or is it about  _me_  being a virgin - ”

“Shut. Up,” Derek says, like his authority isn’t the slightest bit dented by the giant boner he’s sporting. Like he barely notices that he has a boner; like he doesn’t even care. “And get us out of here.”

“Sure,” Stiles mutters, “if I don’t jizz in  _my_  pants, first.”

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

“So, I’m just saying,” Stiles says, in-between sipping his milkshake as loudly as he can, because milkshakes exist to be slurped; that’s what they’re  _for_. “What the hell is going on?”

Derek just glares at Stiles’s milkshake, like it’s out to get him. At Stiles’s mouth, like it’s the source of every annoyance in the known universe. Which, heh, it sort of is.

Stiles just smirks and slurps louder. “I mean, this is the fifth diner we’ve ended up eating at. Together. For no reason that I can understand.”

“We’re on stakeout.”

“Yeah, but - ”

“There’s a vampire on the loose.”

“Yeah, but - ”

“A vampire targeting waitresses.”

“ _Yeah_ , but I ain’t exactly the Sherlock Holmes to your Watson, and last I checked, we weren’t co-starring in  _Hot Fuzz_ , so why the heck are we always on stakeout together?”

Derek frowns, like he’s only just noticed it.

“Uh-huh. I get that Scott and Isaac are, like, joined at the hip or whatever, and that my status as best man at Scott and Allison’s inevitable wedding is no longer guaranteed - about which I am not bitter, at all, clearly - but still. And, yes, Boyd and Erica only have eyes for each other, and Jackson and Lydia are off boning like newlyweds, but - didn’t we used to rotate our watches? I remember hanging out with Boyd, a couple times; even Isaac, the needy bastard. God, the way he _clings_  to Scott, it’s like - ”

“Are you jealous.”

“Are you physiologically incapable of using question-marks? Just a question. Which, by the way, is  _why I just used a question-mark_. You could hear it. See, it involves a slight elevation of tone, an interrogative lift at the end of your sentence - ”

“Are. You. Jealous. Of Isaac.”

Stiles gapes at Derek. “Where is this coming from? I’m not in _love_  with Scott, okay? Stop making it sound like - ”

“You’re making it sound like that.”

“Well, it’s  _not_. I know it looks like it, sometimes - and, sure, sometimes I get insecure in a… bro kind of way - ”

“Bro,” Derek deadpans.

“Yeah.  _Bro_. It’s guy love, between two guys. Like Turk and J.D. from  _Scrubs_ , got it?”

Derek’s face is just - blank.

“Don’t recognize ‘em? Jesus, this is why you need to start watching television. You’re culturally malnourished. No wonder you’ve got social scurvy.”

“I’m not diseased,” Derek states, flatly, like Stiles just accused him of having an STD.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Anyway. The point, my non-bro, is that we used to have variety on our stakeouts. I even used to get to hang out with Erica, when she didn’t want to kill me. But now, it’s like… people are dumping us on one another. Doesn’t it make you feel, I dunno - ” Stiles flaps his hands “ - resentful? Ostracized? Like a pariah? Oh, wait. You  _are_  a pariah; that’s your status quo. You don’t even realize what’s happening, do you?”

Derek just sprawls indifferently on his seat, somehow managing to turn it into a pose from  _GQ_. Asshole. “My pack isn’t ‘ostracizing’ me.” He tilts his head; narrows his eyes. “No more than they have been.”

“Ouch.”

Derek shrugs. “It’s the role of an Alpha. It’s not my job to be their friend, it’s my job to be their leader.”

“Right.” Stiles stares at him, and feels and odd little… twist in his stomach. Not pity, not for  _Derek Hale_ , because that would be ridiculous. But - something. Something weird. That he isn’t going to pay any attention to. Because, like he told Scott, once, he’s in favor of ignoring problems until they go away. Not that this is a problem. Whatever this is. Because he’s ignoring it. Yep.

Derek considers him. “Stop that.”

“What? Stop what?”

“Whatever’s making you smell like that.”

“Smell like… what?” Stiles sticks his nose in his armpit, sniffing.

Derek looks uncomfortable. And looks away.

They sit there. In an awkward silence.

Stiles doesn’t do silence, though, so eventually, by the time the (unfortunately geriatric and not at all attractive) waitress brings Stiles his third milkshake (seriously, he’s gonna have to pee, soon) and Derek his second burger, Stiles is jiggling his knee and tapping his fingers.

“Hey,” he says, and knocks his shoe against Derek’s.

Derek semi-glowers at him. In the way that means he isn’t actually pissed off at having his personal space invaded, but is expressing a baseline irritation at Stiles’s general existence.

Stiles grins.

Derek’s semi-glower evolves into a semi-frown.

“No vamp in sight, huh?” Stiles nudges his foot against Derek’s. Again. To his surprise, Derek doesn’t pull back. Then again, Derek is committed to ignoring almost everything Stiles does, so it’s probably just that.

“No.” After a pause, Derek continues, gruffly: “Stop stating the obvious.”

“What if there is no vamp? What if it’s just some bizarre fantasy dreamt up by wannabe Bella Swans?”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Malnourished!” Stiles jabs a finger at Derek. “What I meant was, no one’s  _died_. Or even been attacked, that we know of. No bitten necks, no sudden onsets of anemia. Nada.”

“Lydia - ”

“Lydia said a waitress buddy of hers was getting stalked by a vamp -  _theoretically_  getting stalked by a vamp - but maybe Lydia’s in on this dumping-us-on-each-other conspiracy. Ever thought of that?”

“Why?”

“Dunno.” Stiles’s pulse stutters, for some reason, and he looks down at his milkshake, quickly, hoping that his heart isn’t beating so fast that Derek notices it.

Not that it matters, even if he does, because a) problem, and b) ignoring it until it goes away. Stiles is fairly certain Derek shares the same philosophy. Except when it comes to vamps or other assorted monsters threatening Beacon Hills. Thank god.

“Um,” Stiles mumbles, “they might just wanna spend more time together. So that, uh, all the other couples - I mean, all the - the couples. Might. Get some time. To themselves. Y’know, Boyd with Erica. Lydia with Jackson. Scott with - hell, no, not Isaac, Scott’s still hung up on Allison, but - ”

Derek grunts. Noncommittally. That was totally a noncommittal grunt. Stiles has gotten good at reading grunts, ever since he started - involuntarily - hanging out with a caveman. Cavewolf. Whatever.

Another silence settles over them, but it’s different, this time. Not awkward. Not  _just_  awkward, at any rate. Stiles isn’t sure what else it is, but he sits there, relaxing by degrees, sipping his milkshake more quietly than usual.

And if he leaves his foot there, against Derek’s, it’s just ‘cause Derek’s left his foot there, as well. He’d just draw attention to it by pulling it away, which  _would_  make things awkward.

So.

It’s not footsie, or anything. It’s just. Um. Shoes. Against each other. Stiles’s worn sneaker against Derek’s shiny leather boot of badassery. Damn. Derek’s as fashion-conscious than Cynth, and that’s saying something, considering that Cynth’s a drag queen whose every shoe must be a precise shade of lilac and whose stiletto heels must be a precise 8.5 inches. ( _If it ain’t longer than Magic Mike’s dick_ , she’d said, the last time Stiles visited the club,  _I ain’t interested_.)

Stiles snorts.

Derek raises an eyebrow. Lazily. Is it possible for eyebrows to be lazy?

“Nothing,” says Stiles, and he  _could_  pull his leg away, now, but he doesn’t.

It’s just another problem he’ll ignore. Until it goes away. On its own. Accidental non-footsie goes away on its own, doesn’t it? It’ll go away when they stand up to leave. Yeah. That’s the normal thing. It isn’t like their ankles are tied together for a three-legged race. Man, that’d be hilarious. And awful. More awful than hilarious.

For the time being, though, he’ll enjoy his milkshake, contemplate how long it’ll be before he has to go to the toilet, and watch Derek watching the diner, his eyes dark and patient, his foot resting against Stiles.

 

* * *

 


End file.
